Triumphant No More
by Theater Raven
Summary: Based on the 1925 Lon Chaney version.He had worked so hard for this moment, only to have it shattered in a second....


**Triumphant No More**

I wanted to break into a run, but I could not. It would spook the horse and Christine might fall off. God forbid I do anything to hurt her. So I just kept walking, kept my gaze straight ahead. We were coming to the end of another ramp again.

At last, the edge of the river. I helped her into the boat. She was afraid, but once we began moving down the channel, whether it was the lapping of the water or the gentle movement of the boat, she seemed to calm down. I think, even, she began to feel sleepy. We reach the end of our journey, finally. I stepped out, opened the door.

I have never had a reason to be proud of my house, but I was eager for her to see it. I gestured to the doorway, outstretched my hand to her, but she just sat there, staring.

"Come," I said, extending my hand again, "There's no reason to be afraid."

That seemed to reassure her and she took my hand; I was nearly shaking at feeling her tiny, delicate hand clasped in mine—and mine is larger and stronger than hers—suppose I got too excited and held it so tight that a bone broke? I swallowed, took a few breaths to steady my racing heart, and led her inside. I closed the door, turned to face her, and she stared around her.

"Do you like it?" I asked, feeling like a fool for asking such a question.

She only continued to gaze around her, then, as if the realization of this strange journey and the strange settings she now found herself in came to claim her reasoning, she backed away, trembling. It did not help my already-wandering mind that she was backing up towards a small couch in the so-called living room…..Why didn't I consider I'd be setting my desires up for arousal? This wasn't helping. I wanted to touch her, but dared not even take a step near her for fear she would vanish and I would awaken and find her presence in my home had been nothing but one of a thousand fantastic dreams that filled my head by day and night alike. She was sitting on the couch now, looking at me as though pleading to take her back above. She needed an explanation and I was yearning to give it.

I rushed to her, dropping to my knees, taking the hem of her dress in my fingertips, bringing it against the lips of my mask. It was not much of an explanation—she looked even more bewildered—but it was a start. I glanced up at her and she just gave me a blank look back.

"I have brought you here—five cellars underground—because I love you!" I managed to get out.

She blinked, more puzzled.

Getting up, she walked to the edge of the room, turning to look at me. She turned again, her back to me, trying to find a way out.

"Don't go in there!"

Too late—she rushes into the opposite room. There was a pause, then, a frightened whimper. She came back out, her face as white as chalk, and I know she has seen the coffin draped with a red velvet blanket.

"That is where I sleep," I explained, "It reminds me of that other dreamless sleep that cures all ills—forever!"

Slowly, understanding crosses her face. Placing her hand against the doorframe to steady herself, she pointed an accusing finger at me.

"You—you are the Phantom!"

"If I am the Phantom, it is because man's hate has made me so. If I shall be saved, it will be because your love redeems me," I answered crisply.

"Men once knew me as Erik," I added, "Yet I have lived for years down in these cellars a nameless legend."

This, apparently, was too much for her. She seemed to fall in slow motion, but the next thing I knew, she had fainted on the ground. Rushing over to her, I picked her up, checking for a pulse. I scooped her up in my arms, carrying her into the room I had spent all morning preparing for her.

I was quite proud of myself, actually. The bed was lavish enough—no doubt my subconscious mind was fully awake while I was making it!—and I had managed to get a few flowers by "borrowing" them from people's gardens, taking them before the sun had fully risen. I ducked to avoid hitting the canopy, lying her down on the soft comforter, watching her sleep for a moment. God, this was so tempting. Her dark brown curly hair was draped on the pillow around her like a fan, the fabric of her dress settled to make various curves and shapes nearly irresistibly visible, and the rhythmic rising and falling of her chest was a comforting sight. She looked content, and, with a smile behind the mask, I turned from the bedside before I could change my mind. I would not act unless she consented.

I busied myself with lying out the wedding dress for her on a nearby chair and a few pairs of shoes, along with a note, then, I returned to my masterpiece. I did not play the organ for fear of waking her up, but instead jotted down some notes, rewrote some sections and lyrics for various characters. Then, I fixed myself supper and barely ate it. I barely slept that night, and usually, I am a very deep sleeper. I awakened the next morning and sat down to practice some of the quieter pieces in the score.

I suddenly had the feeling that I was being stared at and I've never liked that feeling, so I turned and found Christine reading over my shoulder.

"_Don Juan Triumphant . . ._" she muttered to herself.

I turned to her.

"Since I first saw your face," I said, "This music has been singing to me of you and—love triumphant!"

My mind instantly flashed back to the dreams that had filled my head the night before—they were more wonderful and fantastically exciting than usual, since she was now finally in my home. I turned back to the organ and began playing again.

"Yet listen—there sounds an ominous undercurrent of warning!" I exclaimed as the notes thundered on.

I let the music envelope my soul, wrap it in the familiar trance, but it seemed heightened now, knowing that she was directly behind me. The piece I was now playing was the worst I could have played for her to be standing behind me—with no words needed, if the right ear was listening, the piece expressed exactly what I wanted, all the natural and amazing desires that every human, regardless of their appearance, of any imperfection the status quo may label them with, posses in their heart, down to the darkest depths, the yearnings that we sometimes do not even dare admit even to ourselves, the cravings that may be so strong, so incredibly beyond any of our comprehensions if we have never satisfied them before that we may not even know they lie there in our hearts. Music, however, is the key that unlocks all those doors and passages—even the ones we have not discovered in ourselves yet. Music and lyrics—the human spirit comes pouring out in both of them, and makes the listening spirits fly to the very heavens, for they are hearing what lies in their own hearts yet they dare not voice themselves . . .

Just as the music builds, going up and up and up, sending my heart to the heights of where I am nearly ready to turn around and show her just exactly what this is saying, her hands graze my shoulders. I jerk back, gritting my teeth just before a moan escapes my lips—oh, God, can she sense it, too? Does she want it, too? Has the trust that has taken so long to build finally let the seeds of love grow in her heart? Her hands come to touch me again—Christine, Christine! I am nearly ready to turn around when it all shatters—a flash of wind, a sound of quickly-moving cloth.

My mask is gone. I scream and turn around and, as I knew, she screams at the sight of me, falling back, and I point at her, hissing, snarling, angry enough to kill….That was when she knew the fury of Erik, the enraged monster that appears behind the mask when it is gone without him wanting it to be. And soon, she will know it again, for I perch now on the angel statue, my heart in shreds again—she has betrayed me.

My opera is now just a legend. There is no hope, there is no chance. I am not Don Juan, quite the opposite. There is no hope, no chance.

I am triumphant no more.


End file.
